


Play in Three Acts

by Experimental



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Americanisms, Anal Fingering, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Frozen Teardrop Timeline, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - M/M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Experimental/pseuds/Experimental
Summary: It's been a while since Quatre and Trowa last put on a show.Duo's not ready to end the call just yet.
Relationships: Duo Maxwell/Quatre Raberba Winner, Trowa Barton/Duo Maxwell/Quatre Raberba Winner, Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Play in Three Acts

**Author's Note:**

> The following is very loosely based in the _Frozen Teardrop_ universe. Reading FT shouldn't be a prerequisite. This is really just an excuse to have some fun in that world, but for those who are sticklers for setting, I imagine it takes place sometime between AC 214-217/MC 0017-0018.

“Warlock, huh? Love the name. So metal.” Duo whistles as he skims through the files. “Man, if I were twenty years younger . . .”

On the other side of the screen and a million kilometers away, at his secret location somewhere within the orbit of Mars, Quatre smiles. “I take it that means you like what you see?”

It's all Duo can do not to sound too eager. He hasn't even gotten to glimpse the real thing yet. “I mean, I'd have to take a closer look at the plans to _really_ be sure. . . .”

But, hell, he's itching to end this call and pour himself some Turkey. Clear his schedule and spend some quality one-on-one time with Deathscythe's successor's schematics. Times like this it hits Duo just how much he still misses his old partner. When it came down to it, Deathscythe was one of the great loves of his life. And it always was easier to remain faithful to a machine.

“Take as long as you need,” Quatre says, leaning back in his swivel chair. “Doctor T and I are still in the assembly phase. These gundams are a little different than the ones we're used to.”

“Not the walk in the park you thought they'd be?”

“Not exactly. You're familiar with the expression 'one step forward, two steps back'? The Mad Five left pretty detailed schematics, but it seems there are some secrets regarding the execution of them that they took to their graves. We may have to make some major alterations as we go along—meaning those plans I sent you,” Quatre nods toward his console, “might soon be nothing more than a collector's item.”

“I'll just have to frame 'em and put 'em up on my wall for posterity. I'm guessing that means you've solved your gundanium problem.”

Quatre laughs. “Please. I may no longer be head of the Winner Corporation, but I _am_ still a Winner, and name counts for everything.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I'm above suspicion. You think anyone's going to investigate if a few resource satellites go missing out of thousands? It wouldn't be the first time an orbit decayed more rapidly than expected. It's practically an accounting error,” Quatre says with an innocent shrug.

But not innocent enough. Duo can see right through it.

“It's always the quiet ones,” he says, letting a wry grin break across his face. Good old Quatre, playing that rich kid card just diplomatically enough the guilt about it won't keep him up at night.

But if Duo would trust anyone's ability to stockpile a controlled material like gundanium alloy and get away with it right under everyone's noses . . . “He's rubbing off on you, Q—or, I guess it's 'W' now, huh? Or 'Professor'?”

“ _Heh._ Whatever you want to call me in private is fine by me, Duo.”

“Well, it's a good thing you guys have your shit together doing this long-distance thing.” (Quatre rolls his eyes when Duo says this and looks up at something behind his console, but Duo doesn't think to take that as his cue to choose his words more carefully.) “Make sure you carve out some space for yourself while you still can, 'cause once you shack up it won't be long before the two of you start dressing the same.”

“Hello, Father,” Trowa says, stepping into frame behind Quatre's chair.

“T!” Well, shit. If Duo could just take back that last minute . . . “They let you off-world?”

“Just for a week or so. To compare notes.”

And speaking of comparing notes, Trowa's in nothing but a towel, wrapped around his waist. Still glistening from the shower, showing off that tight body of his that's been honed by years as an acrobat and animal trainer in the circus. That body, thoughts of which Duo's positive got Hilde through many a night together. And if there's one thing that never fails after all this time to make Duo feel like a lousy shit who's failed his own body, it's that.

 _Goddamn Mars and its goddamn syndrome,_ Duo sends another curse out into the ether. (Never mind all the hard drinking, hard riding and hard everything else that started long before he ever set foot on Mars.)

“What's this about couples dressing alike?” Trowa says. “Hasn't Sister Hilde suffered enough from your _bad habits_?”

Duo's surprised Trowa's not walking with a limp, 'cause it sounds like he's been sitting on that gem for a while.

“Now, T, didn't anyone ever teach you not to throw stones? At least when I got all dolled up on a Saturday night, I wasn't the stuff of little kids' nightmares.”

“You would have made a pretty foxy nun, Duo,” Quatre laughs.

It's such a sincere, Quatre thing to say, that it takes Duo back in time. For a moment, he feels like he's fifteen again, sharing a joke with Quatre and Trowa in the hospital wing on MO-II. Back before peacetime roughed Duo up and Mars had her wicked way with him. Before Quatre went prematurely grey. Before Trowa—

Well, to Duo's constant disappointment, Trowa never seems to change all that much. Another twenty years and he'll still have washboard abs, the bastard.

Duo wonders if Trowa feels it too, when their eyes meet through the screen, all joking set aside. It's been a long time since the three of them were together in the same place, but at moments like this, they still feel like the same people they used to be. Connected by their unique experience, their shared burden, their trauma, like the cuts and bruises are still fresh. That special brotherhood—that's something neither time nor whiskey nor some damn Martian spore can take away from Duo. Hard as they may try.

Then Trowa turns to Quatre. “Did you still want to?”

“Of course. But only if Duo's up for it.”

“Care to fill me in? You know it drives me nuts when you two do this finishing each other's sandwiches thing.” But from their conspiratorial tone, the smiles they're trying so hard to hide, Duo thinks he has a good inkling of what they're up to.

“We were thinking,” Trowa purrs, leaning over the back of Quatre's chair, “that it's been a while since we last put on a show.”

“A _show_ , huh?” Duo allows himself a lecherous grin. _So, my suspicions were right. Heh. These two never change._ “This wouldn't happen to be one of those shows that requires audience participation, would it?”

“I don't want to say it's mandatory,” Quatre says, while Trowa flicks open the top few buttons of his shirt and slips his hand down inside, “but a quid pro quo would be only fair, don't you think?”

“Just like old times,” says Trowa.

“Don't forget to tip your servers.” Duo leans back, clasping his hands behind his head. “Why not? I didn't have any plans after this. Other than getting sauced and poring over the Warlock schematics, and that can wait.”

“Glad to hear it,” Quatre says, before allowing Trowa to turn his head and kiss his mouth, nice and slow.

But just 'cause it's nice and slow doesn't mean there's anything pure or innocent about it. Through the part of their lips, Duo can see Trowa's tongue slip into Quatre's mouth, and Quatre's groan, with all the promise in it of far more interesting things to come, rakes straight down Duo's body like fingernails. It's gotta be an act the two of them are putting on. No one can be _that_ good a kisser.

Then again, for some, having a captive audience is the best aphrodisiac there is. When Quatre pushes back his chair and guides Trowa into frame beside him, Trowa's already half-hard under the towel, plain for Duo to see. Trowa adjusts the picture while Quatre reaches for the towel. He pulls it out of its tuck—

And keeps it raised up in front of the two of them as he leans in toward Trowa's crotch.

“Aww, c'mon, Q,” Duo groans. He can hear the wet sound of kisses on bare skin but can't see anything. “That isn't fair.”

“You're right. You're still fully-dressed over there, aren't you?”

Duo growls as he stands up, but Quatre's got a point. Fair's fair. Tugging his shirt out of his waistband, he undoes his pants and pushes them down off his hips, adjusting the camera angle on his end as he settles back down so the other two can't miss the tent he's begun pitching in his shorts. “Happy now?”

In place of an answer, Quatre lets the towel fall from his grip. And goes back to what he started: adoring Trowa's dick with his mouth.

And if Duo knows Quatre at all, he's going to make a thorough job of it, too, make sure he covers every square centimeter. Quatre kisses his way down the far side, not in any hurry, fondling the head with the lightest of touches as it rubs against his cheek. Trowa lets out a small gasp above him, and combs his fingers gently through Quatre's silver hair.

“Jesus,” Duo hears himself mutter, his dick twitching in sympathy with Trowa's.

Trowa laughs, low in his throat. “Taking the lord's name in vain already, Father?” His face may be out of frame, but Duo can hear his curious smile, and knows Trowa can see him just fine. “How many Hail Marys are you going to have to say when this is over?”

“Aww, T, I'm flattered you like to think of me on my knees. Does Quatre know you have a pervy priest fetish?”

“I don't know what it is. There's just something about a man in a dog collar.”

But Quatre's not paying their mutual ribbing any attention. Holding Trowa's dick steady in one hand, he drags his tongue up its length and slips his mouth over the head. Suddenly that's the only thing Duo can focus on, too: just Trowa's dick, as hard as his own feels, disappearing between Quatre's lips with every bob of Quatre's head.

Duo strokes himself over the fabric of his shorts, unconsciously mirroring Quatre's pace. Imagining with every wet release, every lick of Quatre's lips, that it's his own cock sliding back into that warm mouth, rounding Quatre's cheek when he tries to fit in just a few centimeters more. His own balls being massaged beneath Quatre's palm.

Trowa's stomach and thighs quiver with self-restraint. He's always been good at not giving much away, that hasn't changed. But Duo can hear the hitch in his breath when Quatre stops partway down his shaft, and can guess by the undulation of Quatre's throat what he's doing.

“Too bad you can't be here to feel this, Father,” Trowa says, voice suddenly tight. “The things he does with his tongue. . . .”

 _Don't I wish. But I can imagine better than you know_ , Duo respects Trowa enough not to share out loud.

Quatre, it seems, doesn't share his compunctions.

Or else he knows exactly what Trowa's trying to do, and wants to even the playing field a bit. “Oh, he knows,” Quatre says, letting Trowa's dick slip from his mouth so he can nuzzle it. “Don't you, Duo? That long weekend we had in Marrakech . . .”

“When it was too hot to sleep, we had to go up on the roof? Lying there all night, listening to the city?”

Slouching further down in his seat, it all starts to come back to Duo. The smell of the desert, like donkeys and hot electronics, like Quatre and Arabic coffee, and his braid constantly sticking to his neck (maybe it's just the nostalgia getting to him, but he really misses its weight right now). Duo complaining he was bored, and Quatre helping himself to Duo's fly, blushing the whole time and apologizing in advance that he'd only done this “once or twice” before.

If Quatre really was as embarrassed as he looked, though, he didn't let it slow him down one bit. He just had to be a natural-born genius at everything, whether the violin or mobile suits or giving head.

“Yeah,” Duo says, the word catching in his throat. “I remember.”

He thinks about Quatre's tongue, so earnest and eager to please, as he rolls his frenulum beneath his fingertips. They're a poor substitute, but Duo still feels as sensitive as ever. As if Quatre opened something inside him that night that Duo's never gotten to close properly again.

“This sounds romantic.” By the chill in his voice, it would seem Trowa's jealous. _Nicely done, Quatre._ “When were you two in Morocco together?”

“It was just some Preventer business,” Quatre says without looking up. “You were on tour in the colonies.”

“Oh, so secret agent stuff. Even better.”

But Trowa plays with Quatre's hair as he says so, the gesture tender and familiar, completely forgiving, and it wounds Duo like a quick jab to the gut.

“You know he was thinking about you the whole time,” he tells Trowa, and is just glad right now he can't see Trowa's face, 'cause Duo doesn't want to see how he reacts to that.

Quatre meets Duo's eyes through the screen instead, the same way he looked up at Duo that night. With that irresistible knowing smile that hints at everything they buried together out in that desert.

The smile vanishes when Quatre takes Trowa's dick back into his mouth, of course—but for a few slow bobs, those sea-blue eyes stay on Duo, undressing him down to his very soul. Duo's dick throbs in his shorts. He just knows those eyes are gonna end up haunting his dreams. Especially nights he can't get to sleep.

It isn't long before Trowa's patience shows fraying around the edges. His breath comes shallow, his fingers in Quatre's hair more restless. His cock, when Quatre releases it, flushed and practically begging. He's gotta be right on the edge.

“What do you think?” Quatre asks Duo. “Should we let him come?”

 _We_ _?_ Duo likes the sound of that. The temptation to drag this out for Trowa is almost too good to resist. “So soon? I dunno. . . .”

“Come on. Have mercy, Father!”

Well, if Trowa's going to put it that way.

Or maybe it's Quatre's fingers pressing down at the base of his cock, keeping Trowa from tripping over that edge too soon. “Well,” Quatre thinks aloud, “I do want him to last through everything I plan to do to him.”

Duo can't help but laugh. Who but the other gundam pilots would ever believe Quatre was so devious? “Like you even need my blessing, Q.”

But now that he has it, Quatre redoubles his efforts, running his hands up the back of Trowa's legs and kneading his buttocks as he sucks Trowa's cock, practically ordering his surrender. Trowa comes with a sigh, the stoic bastard. But Duo can hear the raggedness of it, watches Trowa's dick pulse as he unloads in Quatre's mouth and remembers how glorious that felt.

It's Trowa who pulls away first, bending down to wipe some jizz or saliva from the corner of Quatre's mouth with his thumb before kissing Quatre thoroughly, leaning his arms on the back of Quatre's chair. They moan in harmony as they share Trowa's cum between them, and it isn't fair, Duo thinks, that they're able to do it in a way that's both debauched and somehow pure at the same time. If Duo hadn't been expressly invited to stay on the call, he might have felt like he was peeping in on something meant to be private.

Quatre strokes Trowa's cheek as he pulls away, tells him “Get on the bed,” and just like that Duo is right back in it.

“Enjoying yourself so far?” Quatre asks Duo as he stands up to unbutton the rest of his shirt.

Duo eases his shorts down enough to expose his cock, and lets it loll back heavy and dewey and still very much unsatisfied against his belly. “That answer your question?”

Quatre lets out an impressed chuff. Duo can practically feel his old friend's eyes raking his dick, the same way they did on that Moroccan rooftop. Doesn't matter how many times Quatre sees it. He always has to stare. _Admiring your handiwork, Q?_

“I'll take that to mean you're ready for Act Two,” Quatre says, shrugging off his shirt and lab coat together.

“Hey, man, this is your rodeo. All I gotta do is hold on till the end.”

Duo opens his own shirt up to the Roman collar, watching Quatre's hands on his fly all the while. _I showed you mine, now let's see yours._

Quatre doesn't really do stripteases, though. At least, not when he's the one being stripped. He's all business as he steps out of his trousers, more focused on bringing the console closer to the bed and getting everything framed and zoomed in just right than he is on playing up his nakedness or arousal.

While he sets up the shot, Duo appreciates his unadulterated view of Quatre au naturel. Skin still unmarked by time—an old bullet graze and puncture wound aside—muscles more defined than Duo remembers from assembling two gundams. Duo imagines pulling Quatre to him, feeling those arms tense under his grip.

Until Quatre says over his shoulder, “Can you see Duo alright?”

Cooling down on the bed on his stomach, stretched out like a leopard in his tree, Trowa raises his head.

And it seems from his glare that he knows exactly where Duo's eyes have been lingering and what he's been thinking. “Yeah. Maybe a hair to the right—there. That's good.”

“Duo?”

“No complaints from where I'm sittin'.” If Duo needs to, he can always pan and zoom.

Satisfied, Quatre taps Trowa's leg with the back of his hand, and that's Trowa's cue to get up on his hands and knees, his backside turned to Duo.

Which is just where Duo wants him when Quatre comes up behind, placing one knee between Trowa's as he follows him onto the bed. Quatre lubes up his fingers from a tube he drops on the mattress beside them, and Trowa shivers when Quatre slides them between his cheeks, diligently circling and teasing his hole before sliding one finger inside.

But Duo isn't too focused on that. Made confident by their backs turned to him, it's Quatre he's watching: the way he still chews his lower lip in concentration, the way his buttocks tense with every little shift in balance.

Yeah, Duo wishes he was there, alright. He wishes he could run his hands all over that pale ass and watch it pinken under his touch. Wishes he could squeeze it, bite it, bury himself balls-deep in it, instead of sitting here, a million kilometers of space between them, just fantasizing about it with his own hand. Quatre always did sort of remind Duo of a girl from behind, with his high waist and soft lines.

So maybe his lines aren't as soft as they were when they spent time together back on Earth. Back when they were practically still just boys, not yet done growing, and Quatre still blond, above and below. It's a good thing Quatre's a guy, is all Duo can say, because if he wasn't, Duo's not sure he'd have stayed on friendly terms with Trowa these last twenty-odd Earth years.

Once again, as if reading his thoughts across all that space, Trowa says, “You're kind of quiet back there, Father. What's on your mind?”

Like Duo's going to tell him the truth. “That I could do without being punched in the stomach next time we meet, if it's all the same to you?”

Trowa laughs at that. “Fair enough.”

But Quatre insists, “What? I want to hear it.”

_No. No you don't, Quatre._

“Don't worry about me,” Duo tells him. “I'm just takin' it all in, grateful to still be included.”

And grateful to have attention shifted back away from him, when Quatre crooks the finger he has inside Trowa and Trowa jolts, biting down on a grunt, the cant of his hips begging for more.

“ _There_ we go,” Quatre says under his breath. To Trowa or Duo or himself, it doesn't really matter. Just focuses his efforts on hitting Trowa's prostate from that angle, fucking Trowa slowly with that one finger, rolling the backs of his others into Trowa's perineum at the same time.

Before long, Trowa's moaning from the dual pressure. With such control, Duo can't help but suspect it's for his benefit. Just to drive it home even harder: how completely Quatre belongs to Trowa that he knows exactly what it takes to make Trowa unravel.

Then again, maybe it's not all an act. Quatre must be drilling down on that p-spot real good, is all Duo can think when Trowa sinks to his elbows, twisting the sheets in his fists. “ _Gah_ —Quatre—” he bites out, rocking forward, forehead pressed into the mattress. All the tension in his legs telling Duo he would hump the bed just to feel some relief if he wasn't determined to outlast Quatre's surround-and-conquer tactic.

Trowa hasn't once reached for his cock either, which is stiff again and bouncing against his stomach with every pump of Quatre's finger. But Duo knows Trowa well enough to tell he's loving every second of this torment. He's always had a martyr streak. And that's saying something for a gundam pilot.

Duo can't say he shares Trowa's tendencies toward self-denial. He curls his fingers loose around his own dick and works up a leisurely glide, circling his thumb over the head every few beats, rubbing down every drip of precum his empathy for Trowa draws up. Keeping the pleasure at a nice low, constant buzz while he enjoys the show. Ready to back himself away from the edge if he feels it approaching too soon. Duo has no idea how long Quatre plans to drag this out. But as eager as Duo's not for this call to end, he doesn't think he has the patience of either one of them.

Maybe not much longer. All the planning in the world can't keep Quatre from rutting restlessly up against Trowa's backside. Holding Trowa steady at the hip, he easily slips another finger in alongside the first. (Clearly at least one of them came to the show well-prepared.) Duo barely catches the “Are you ready for me?” that Quatre murmurs as he bends over Trowa, and anyway, it wasn't meant for him.

Trowa doesn't respond right away. Maybe he wants to see just how much more he can endure.

But Quatre pumps his fingers quick and tight and it undoes what was left of Trowa's resolve. He shakes hard and nods, toes curling with the intensity of the pleasure ignited inside him. “ _Yes. Please,_ ” he all but sobs. “Fuck me, Quatre.”

Those are the magic words that still Quatre's hand. He's trembling himself as he pulls out, careful not to trigger another orgasm just yet. Quatre presses a soothing kiss to the base of Trowa's spine, and releases him so Trowa can turn over.

“Still with us, Duo?”

“Christ, Q.” Duo has to clear his throat just to get past the frog in it. Can't deny it's affecting to see Trowa with the lid he usually keeps down tight on his emotions blown clean off. “Think you tortured the poor guy enough?”

Taking that for a compliment, Quatre laughs.

“You talking about me or you, Father?” Trowa says, settling back on one elbow. Cool as a cucumber, as if Duo didn't just see him squirming and begging for Quatre's dick a moment ago.

Duo blesses him with a sign of the cross, flipping a bird at the end for good measure.

“Cool it, you two,” Quatre chides them. “If it's not too much to ask, I'd really like it if the three of us could finish together.”

“Well, shit,” Duo groans, and he would kiss Quatre if he were there, 'cause “if that's not the most Quatre thing I've ever heard you say.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” says Trowa.

Ignoring their teasing, Quatre scoots himself up against Trowa's back. His cock juts up alongside Trowa's balls, eager to finally have its turn. Duo still remembers the way it nosed into his hand like a curious animal when he came up behind Quatre in the shower, the morning after the night on the roof.

“You want to put it in?” Quatre says, chin resting on Trowa's shoulder. And for just a second, Duo's back in that shower, their mission temporarily forgotten as he's surrounded by the spray and Quatre's thighs, and the desperate sound of their synched breathing echoing off the tiles.

Only Quatre never said those words to Duo.

At Trowa's “Yeah,” he squeezes some lube onto Trowa's fingers. Trowa opens his legs wide and reaches back for Quatre's dick. Watching Trowa slick them both, Duo can't help envying him his flexibility. After the bad breaks he's had since coming to Mars, if Duo tried to spread his thighs that far apart, he'd probably seize up in cramps. If not dislocate a hip.

He's got to appreciate Trowa's control, though, holding his knee up against his chest without the use of his hands, making sure Duo has the best possible view of everything as he lines the rosy head of Quatre's dick up against his asshole. _Maybe I should've run away and joined the circus after the war, too._

At some subtle cue lost on Duo, Quatre pushes into Trowa, not too slow, holding steady when he feels some resistance. Until the “Keep going, I can take it” that Duo more reads on Trowa's lips than hears gets Quatre moving again.

Quatre stifles his groan in Trowa's shoulder once he's all the way in, clenching his buttocks as he relishes Trowa's tight heat around the full length of his cock. 

Then he blinks up and meets Duo's eyes through the screen. “How do we look to you?”

“Perfect.” Duo doesn't care how sappy that sounds, or if that's even what Quatre meant by his question. His two old friends fit together like it's their natural inevitable state. Joined carnally, mentally, temporally—throwing off so much heat Duo can all but feel it across space. “Like a couple of stars colliding.”

Trowa looks at him like he isn't sure whether to call Duo out on his sentimental bullshit or take him at his word this time, but decides to err on the side of the latter. Keeping his opinions to himself, he flexes against Quatre, hooking his leg around the back of Quatre's, urging him to start moving in earnest.

“I really wish you could be here with us, Duo,” Quatre says while he fucks Trowa from behind. “We could use another set of hands—and I don't just mean with the gundams.”

Duo laughs, knee-jerk, as he starts to stroke himself again. God, Quatre still sucks at innuendo, but his sincerity just endears him to Duo all the more.

“Yeah. I wish I was there, too. Just think how much fun you could have with two of us to torture.”

Or, shit, what Duo and Trowa could do to _Quatre,_ if they put their heads together. No mission to distract them, no nosy neighbors. Just the three of them on a rock out in space, and all the time in the world. The thought alone is enough to get Duo's heart pumping a little faster.

“I wish I could reach out and touch you right now. That _we_ could touch you,” Quatre adds almost as an afterthought, though Duo knows Trowa is far from it. “You'll just have to be our hands for us.”

Already running his free hand over his bare skin, Duo imagines it's Quatre's hands caressing his chest, the flats of Quatre's nails making him shiver. That it's Trowa rolling Duo's nipple stiff under the pads of his fingers.

He imagines it's his dick being swallowed up in Quatre's soft, pink ass as he watches Quatre plumb Trowa's—imagines Quatre arching back against him with that same blissed-out look on his face that Trowa has on his. Hell, if Duo were there with them right now, he would even be glad to lend Trowa a helping hand. He watches Trowa tug distractedly at his own cock and thinks he wouldn't let it go as long as Quatre has without attention. Only realizing after the fact that Trowa's gaze is fixated on Duo's own hand, watching Duo blithely beating away.

“Can you feel me, Duo?” Quatre shivers, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. His hips jitter against Trowa's ass as if he just felt someone press up against him from behind. “Because I can feel you.”

“Jesus, Quat,” Duo breathes, “shit.” 'Cause for just a second there, yeah, Duo could swear he felt another hand besides his own around his dick.

He pulls one of the desk drawers open with his toe, plants his foot on it, needing the extra leverage as he strokes himself all the way from root to crown, thrusting up into his hand, just trying to hold on to that sensation, that connection, as long as possible. All the more so now that he knows he's not alone. “Fuckin' yeah, I feel you. I got your six, buddy.”

“That's good. That's all I want. To make you feel good. Both of you.” Duo can hear it in Quatre's voice now. He's close. But he's holding back. That's just the kind of guy he is. Doesn't want to indulge his own desires until he's seen everyone else satisfied. “I love you both so much.”

 _I love you, too,_ Duo almost says on reflex but catches himself.

Or else the lump in his throat does. He knows Quatre doesn't mean it with him the same way he does with Trowa, but what does it matter? It's enough to know Quatre does mean it, in his own way. He wouldn't lie about that.

( _Shit_ , Duo thinks at the sudden prickle behind his eyes. But he is _not_ going to cry, not like this, with his dick in his hand, and not with Trowa watching. He'd never live it down.)

“Are you close?” Quatre says, and for a second, Duo's sure Quatre's still talking to him. “Want help?” He slides his hand across Trowa's belly.

Trowa shakes his head, swallows hard, like it's too much effort to answer. (So he didn't want the attention after all. _Show-off._ ) “Almost,” he manages, and laces his fingers through Quatre's, holding Quatre's hand to his breast in a white-knuckled grip.

“I thought so,” Quatre says. He curls up against Trowa's side, bracing them tight together as he pistons into him. “You feel like you're about to explode.”

 _God, that makes two of us._ Duo's heartbeat hammers in his ears, his breath coming herky-jerky to the rhythmic slap of their skin and his own frantic flicks of the wrist. His balls feel tight, and every touch electric. Like he's got a dynamo under the palm of his hand, fully charged and hummin' and ready to light him up.

So when Quatre says, “Duo?” Duo doesn't hesitate, doesn't even let him finish: “Right there with you, man. We gonna do this or what?”

He isn't sure which one of them slips over the edge first. Only that the next moment Trowa seizes up and Quatre cries out and Duo shoots his load so hard he sees stars.

“ _Hahh! Ahh, fuck,_ that's good~” Duo grabs at the chair's headrest with his free hand as his ass lifts off his seat. Must've been an Earth decade since he's come this hard from his own hand. He can't let go of himself just yet, got to ride this wave till it leaves him high and dry on the shore. The other two are panting and cussing through his console's speakers, and knowing they're all right there together, feeling the same vibe, keeps him throbbing under his hand long after he's exhausted his energy to move it.

By the time Duo's vision clears and he turns his attention back to the screen, Quatre and Trowa have locked lips again over Trowa's shoulder. Trowa's abs and thighs tremble with what Duo can only imagine is one intense prostate orgasm, the lucky bastard. Quatre stays in, determined to let Trowa's clenching muscles wring every ounce of pleasure from him that they can.

Watching them, Duo's heart clenches in his chest. No matter what Quatre professed in the heat of the moment, no matter how much thought they put into including him in this, that kiss makes it clear there's no place over there for Duo. Not really. Even after all these years of working and living apart, Quatre and Trowa still slip as easily as they ever did into their own closed feedback system, no need for words to know just what the other is feeling. It seems to Duo that he could have had that once or twice in his life, but either by shit luck or his own stupidity he ruined his chances.

The longer Duo watches, the more he's just torturing himself.

He's just about to sit up to disconnect when Quatre pulls away to ask, “Well? Was it as good for you as it was for us?”

“Sure looked like it from here,” Trowa says, cocking a brow at Duo. “Enjoying that Martian gravity, Father?”

There's a warm trickle down the side of Duo's neck that feels too viscous to be sweat, and he doubts he's lucky enough to have missed his collar. Or his chair's headrest, for that matter.

Still, Duo has to chuckle at the image he must've made for the other two, erupting like a geyser in the 0.38 _g_. And who can blame him? No one makes a guy wait for it like Quatre Winner.

“And it's all for you, Doc,” Duo says, unable to resist one last dig as he flexes proudly in his seat, making sure the other two get a nice view of the goodly amount of jizz that _did_ land on his chest and stomach. “I would've applauded your performance but my hands were kinda busy.”

Trowa starts to laugh, but gets his comeuppance when Quatre finally pulls out of him, triggering one last aftershock of his orgasm. He leans over out of frame and returns a couple seconds later with towelettes for each of them, while Duo twists in his chair and reaches for the box of tissues on his desk.

“We have to do this more often,” Quatre sighs as he lies back and stretches against the sheets, utterly sated.

On that, Duo can agree. Limbs heavy, ears still ringing, deliciously warm all over, he's tempted to just pass out in his chair after he hangs up, leave the tidying up till morning. Maybe if he was twenty years younger, and waking up with a killer kink in his neck wouldn't ruin his whole day. “You have my number, Q. Give me a call when you two feel like christening one of the new gundams.”

In the middle of wiping himself off, Trowa pauses to let the idea sink in. “You mean, sex in the cockpit?” It's clear by the look on his face he's already contemplating the logistics of it.

“What d'you say? Think you still got the flexibility, old man?”

“Is that a challenge?”

“No, no, don't even think it,” Quatre's quick to butt in before either of them can get too attached to the idea, “we're keeping these ones pristine.”

“Aww, Q,” Duo says, “what happened to your sense of adventure?”

“That's not the sense I'm worried about! You know once that smell gets in there you never get it back out again.”

“You said it wasn't that bad,” says Trowa.

“I was being polite.”

“Heavyarms?”

“Well, he wasn't going to let me defile Sandrock.”

Trowa turns to Quatre for corroboration, but after a hand against Quatre's shoulder elicits no response: “We lost him.”

“Wore himself out, huh?” Duo says. Then realizes, he hasn't been in the closest touch with any of them lately, for all he knows this could be something more serious. “He gonna be okay?”

Trowa smiles. A fond little smile that isn't meant for Duo.

“Yeah. It's a good thing, actually. He doesn't get much sleep these days. Hell, I'm not sure he ever did,” Trowa amends on second thought, brushing Quatre's hair back from his eyes.

Duo's sure if he were there, he'd do the same thing. Quatre looks like one of those sleeping gods Duo remembers from Sister Helen's art history books, passed out in somebody's back forty, worn out from overindulgence but as innocent in his nakedness as a newborn babe.

“You'd think now he's got all the time in the world it wouldn't be a problem,” Trowa says. “It's as if he forgets he needs to power down and recharge every now and then.”

“Or maybe he just needs someone to give him permission to do it.”

Trowa's hand stills against Quatre's temple. Duo wonders if he's thinking it, too: that maybe comparing notes isn't Trowa's only reason for being there.

“Maybe that's it,” he says. “You know, you're not half bad at this man of the cloth thing, even if it is just a mask.”

“Hey, don't go spreading that around. The first time someone asks me to consecrate something for real the jig'll be up.”

Without Quatre to keep up the conversation between them, however, the first real silence they get just stretches on, colder and more awkward with each passing second.

“Good night, Duo,” Trowa says.

And that's Duo's cue to end the transmission.


End file.
